Sanctuary
by ARoseWithThorns
Summary: Spoiler for the ending of Season 2. Molly has agreed to take Sherlock into her flat so that he can hide until he decides his next move, but what transpires between them both is entirely unexpected. Rated M for a reason; please read responsibly.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was being… decidedly _un_-Sherlock. After she'd agreed to help him, on the night of his "suicide," upon entering and locking the door behind them to her small flat, Molly turned around to observe him scanning her house with his sharp grey eyes, darting from object to object. Whereas his usual bravado would necessitate rambling on and verbally dissecting everything about her from the two teak wood bookshelves crammed into the precious wall space near the window and the old, red lazy boy where she often fell asleep, to the Pathology encyclopedias that littered the sofa and coffee table, to a questionable dog-eared Mills and Boone paperback entitled, "The Detective and the Pathologist" that she hurriedly kicked out of sight under the sofa with a squeak. But even though he undoubtedly witnessed the abuse of the book, he spoke not a word. He was in a somber state, quiet, seemingly beaten. In his despair, he had lowered his guard and turned to her, the only person he could trust, and she was not about to let him down.

"Erm, there's not a lot of space to go on in here, I'm afraid," she rambled, "I need to go grocery shopping, clean up, and figure out where we're going to have you slee-"

"Your _bed_ will be more than adequate." Sherlock announced, sweeping past her to show himself down the hall. She was mortified, not just from his comment and the implication that they'd be sharing a bed, but in trying to remember if she'd left her panties dangling on the dresser from hurriedly getting ready this morning. A niggling little voice in the back of her head told her he somehow had an instinct it would be there. He began opening doors, making small mutterings beneath his breath like, "Hm. Cheerful clean loo to the right, deep tub, candles that are overused with melted wax, Epsom salts, and ah, closet ahead," he opened her linen closet. "Neatly arranged with fresh sheets but not often used, which leads me to believe that you don't often bring home men, and ah, the bedroom." He strode straight into her bedroom like he had every right to be there. It was a fairly decent sized room with a queen sized bed and Victorian-style décor. "Hm. This _is_ unexpected," he muttered.

"What?" Molly hedged nervously. Sure, she'd thought about what it would be like to have Sherlock Holmes in her bedroom on multiple occasions… okay, more than multiple, but now that he was here, she felt a weird sense of dread that he was going to unleash some kind of revelation about her eccentric habits and desires, and ultimately embarrass her. It was the definition of awkward. She spied her Marks and Spencer lace panties where she'd lassoed them this morning while rushing to get out of the house, but Sherlock blocked her point of view with his formidable presence.

"Merely," his eyes distracted her as he watched her with his head cocked at a bird-like angle, "That I wasn't expecting your bedroom to be so… lissome." Before she could register her shock that he'd ever thought about her bedroom or the half insult that she wasn't feminine , she noticed he'd stuffed something into his overcoat pocket, and when he moved away to inspect her decorations, she noticed that her panties had vanished from the knob of the dresser. He wasn't looking at her, merely walking around and surveying her things.

She gulped. "Can I, erm, take your coat? W-would you like some tea?" He paused, thinking, then began to take off his outer wear.

"Coat, yes, no thank you to the tea. I'd like to lie down and think, actually." He handed her his coat, then looked at the bed, slightly frowning as he inspected it.

Molly lifted an eyebrow. "Is something the matter with the bed? I can get you another pillow, if you like."

"Yes and no. It's a lovely duvet, I quiet like old country roses for a design and it fits in perfectly with the charming Victorian theme you've put to the room, which subsequently leads me to believe you have a gentler, more sensual side to your personality … but, has a man slept here before?"

Molly choked and shifted his heavy coat in her arms. "Excuse me?"

"A man, a homosapien, someone with a penis, more specifically someone with whom you've recently had a relationship or sorts?"

Oh, okay, she saw where he was going with this. She huffed, and though she was nowhere near his height, she drew herself up, "I'll have you know, Sherlock Holmes, that I never, not once, went beyond kissing with that evil-"

"That will do," he intoned, and with a slight smile, he threw himself on the bed, laying on his back with his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes. "If you don't mind, I need a few hours in my mind palace. Please feel free to go about your normal routine as if I weren't here. For all intents and purposes, I'm not. I sleep quite deeply, and as I've successfully conclude that you sleep on the right side of the bed, I'll remain here and shan't disturb you."

Molly's jaw dropped, and as odd as it was, she felt tears spring to her eyes. She knew he was barely hanging on by a finely woven thread, and it was at those times, much like her father, that he forewent decency and let it all hang out there, so to speak. She sighed, daring to take a sniff of his coat in her arms, before turning and pausing at the doorjamb. "I'll be here if you need me, Sherlock. I'll have a meal waiting for you on the table if you get hungry."

She'd made it a few steps when she heard him call her name. "Yes?" she called back, wondering what on earth she was going to do with him.

"Thank you," he said.

She smiled privately as she took his coat to hang up on the coat rack. Out of curiosity, she felt his pockets, and sure enough, the M&S panties were stuffed safely in the bottom of his left pocket. She left it there, and bit her lip, smiling nervously as she headed to the kitchen. 


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you VERY much to everyone who took the time out to review, read, and add this story to their updates. It's fantastic to get feedback on what you liked, what you didn't, and if you felt that I'm doing an accurate job or not on characterization. This is going to be a very short and sweet piece; it should be just one more chapter, and then it will be completed. I'm going for quality and not quantity here (while there will admittedly be a 'scene' – so the term 'quality' is subjective; though I aim to make it tastefully done and not just 'smut'). Truly, thanks very much for reading. Honest feedback is the best thing a writer can have. There is a lot of exposition at the beginning of this chapter, apologies but it's necessary for character development. The real action will ensue next (and the last) chapter. I love Molly, she deserves her moment. Enjoy.**

A cat howled from outside as she crossed into the kitchen.

Toby! Molly realized she'd forgotten about her poor new cat right up until the moment he frantically pawed at the windowsill above the kitchen sink to be let in. She opened the window, and he came through the landing with a disgruntled _mrow _her way, nevertheless rubbing against her leg despite his mood. Out of the realization that she was seriously starting to feel lonely, a few months back Molly went to the RSPCA and adopted a young Tabby cat with very distinguished-looking features, if she did think so herself. He was decidedly British and something of a battle-axe in temperament; he was moody and specifically liked things a certain way. At first she'd been hard-pressed not to name him Sherlock simply because of his cat scowls, but Toby seemed the better name. She was glad of it, too, especially considering she would now ultimately have to introduce them to each other. And after the fiasco of making herself over for Sherlock at the Christmas Do, did she really need further embarrassment?

She retrieved Toby's biscuits out of the cupboard and set out a small saucer of milk for him on the floor, which he promptly partook of, and while tidying up the kitchen, she tried not to think of the few times she'd had Jim over for dinner. What a disaster that whole mess had been. He'd been intelligent, charming, and so _into_ her that she was simply caught up in the relationship before she'd even had the time to question the what's or why's of how it began.

It had been ten years since her last relationship, and there was a very particular reason for it, too. She'd been madly in love and engaged to a budding young scientist named Callum. He'd had a keen and astute mind, delving into molecular research that would eventually lead to stem cells and organism replacement growth – and despite his brilliant and sometimes agitated frame of mind (not unlike Sherlock), he had loved her wholeheartedly. The day that she was called to the hospital and told he had some sort of accident (they'd omitted the fact that he'd been shot three times in cold blood by an unknown assailant, sparing her the details in order to get her to the hospital in one piece), and that same day as she held his hand as he passed away, was the moment she truly changed and a piece of her heart died. Since then, Molly lost her father in the same year, then she moved to London and focused entirely on her work, stopped wearing makeup, and though she was still the same sweet, giving spirit deep down, she became more drawn into herself than she had ever been.

So when Jim had come round after a decade of abstinence, with the help of encouragement from good friends, she slowly began to believe that there might be another chance at love, but what a disaster that turned out to be. The only place she truly felt comfortable was at the morgue, and she didn't care how morbid that made her. She preferred the solace and isolated silence of the lab as it helped her center her thoughts; often she had too much going on inside her head that it came out completely different to how it registered in her lively mind. She knew what she looked like in front of Sherlock (like a scared little mouse dangling in front of Toby), but she no longer cared. She would be there for him in whatever he needed, regardless of how he saw her; like Callum, her love for Sherlock was unconditional, and she would do anything he needed, no questions asked.

After cleaning up more than she needed to, leaving some covered lasagna and bread on the table for Sherlock, and looking after Toby, she promptly hid the abused copy of The Detective and the Pathologist behind a few medical encyclopedias on the top shelf on one of the bookshelves. She blushed as she sat down in her red lazy boy, quietly thinking of when she'd bought the silly book the weekend after she met Sherlock. For the most part, she was human and had human needs, but as an intelligent pathologist who considered the Auf bau Principle light bedside reading, those needs had never involved having to read a seedy romance novel just to disappear into a fantasy, but she spied it at WH Smith's on sale near the checkout. After skimming the back and having just met the man, it was a bit of a guilty pleasure she indulged in every so often, a pipedream away from the reality of being emotionally reduced to a love-struck schoolgirl every time she was in his presence. And it was weird… no one, not even Callum had ever had that effect on her. She was intelligent and resourceful, but as far as he was concerned, dithering and plain… still, she loved him.

Molly found herself dozing off. She took extra time in the bathroom, shaving her legs, armpits, tweezing a few stray hairs above her lip, brushing her teeth, taking out the ponytail and combing out her long brown hair, brushing her teeth again, when she finally got the courage to stand in the doorway of her own room. He was, true to his word, fast asleep in the same spot he'd been lying in before, only the whole self-important poise was completely abandoned. He was, simply, a man deeply asleep, with one forearm flung over his eyes. She smiled, noticing that Toby had taken her spot on the bed, and she turned the lights out, deciding at the last moment to just sleep on in the living room. She changed quickly into a modest but cute light blue nightgown in the dark, and after covering Sherlock with the duvet, she softly pushed a stray lock of his absurdly curly, dark hair away from an eye his arm did not cover. She opted to snuggle into a patchwork quilt given to her by the family of a deceased patient for her extra care, and she was soon curled up on the lazy boy and out like a light.

The loud clanging of bells made her jump out of her nestled seat, wide-eyed and frantic the next morning. Sherlock was wearing one of her red flannel dressing gowns, apparently having just taken a shower from his wet hair and fresh scent, loudly ringing one of her beautiful silver bells in his right hand, while, to her horror, he eloquently held The Detective and the Pathologist aloft by his long thumb and pinky finger in the other.

He paced as he read from the book, and she felt blood flow to her cheeks. The absolute worst thing in the world, even worse than the fact that he was reading it, was that he dropped his voice a few notches so it sounded sexy, which made it sound ten times worse but simultaneously turned her on. "'Sebastian trained his cold, gray eyes on Michelle. 'This won't be the last case,' he said, taking her in his muscular arms-' pah, this is absolute nonsense. If he spends all his time following leads and solving crimes, what extracurricular activities is he engaged in besides bedding the 'buxom' Michelle that necessitate him being so brawny? Absolute rubbish! He's acts completely besotted with her one moment, and then indifferent the next!" He waved the paperback in Molly's face, pointing it almost accusingly – she just stood there in her nightie with her jaw dropped and cheeks flushed. "And I'll have you know, that case of the missing jewels, I would have had it wrapped up _before_ they copulated for the fortieth time!" He seemed weirdly angry.

She tried to think of something to say, but the only thing that came out was, "I-I'm sure you would have." She heard herself mentally sarcastically clapping in a silent room in her mind. Bra-_vo_. Nevertheless, her answer seemed to suit him, as he just nodded angrily, his nostrils flaring. He tossed the book over his shoulder, ringing the bell loudly in front of her.

Molly pinched the bridge of her nose from the ensuing headache. "Could you please – not do that right now?"

"I demand an explanation," he announced, ceasing with the ringing, but holding the instrument out to her ceremoniously. "I awoke with your cat wrapped round my ankle and this bell fell on my head when I was searching for a dressing gown in your closet. Explain."

Molly rubbed the back of her neck and rotated her stiff neck, lovingly fingering the pretty edgings in the bell's body with her other hand. She motioned for him to follow her to the bedroom, where she could put it back. Mornings. "Oh, it's nothing, silly, really, just something I did at uni." She felt his gaze as she stood on tip toe in the closet to put the bell carefully back with its brothers and sisters. When she looked up into his assessing gray eyes, she knew she was still blushing, and she wondered if her breath smelled bad. "I used to do concerts with the bell ringers at Oxford, got quite into it, actually," she laughed nervously, and became suddenly aware of her nightgown clinging to her frame. Though it was modestly cut, it did show off her delicate collar bones and neck. "I still do it seasonally, you know, round Christmas time or special occasions."

He narrowed his eyes, and she noticed for the millionth time the cute little vertical crease he got in his forehead whenever he did that. "Go on," he growled.

She became aware that they were standing in a very small walk-in closet, and he was extremely close, as in, a few more millimeters and his body would be against hers. He seemed unphased by this, but for some reason she lowered her voice and couldn't look at him. She felt energy charging through her body. "Erm, when I was young, my father used to take me to the Dickens Festival, and I fell in love with the sounds of the bells. I always thought they had a bit of magic to them. I… I like the way the music can drown out my thoughts," she explained. "You've said yourself that talking's not my strong suit, and it's true… I think too much at times, and the music sort of, I don't know, transports me to a place where my thoughts can lie dormant for a while and the music can take over." She chanced a look up at him, still as unreadable as ever. "Does that make sense?" He nodded quietly, and she knew he understood.

Only then did he move and allowed her to go back through the door. She felt a shiver run through her as he placed a hand in the bare small of her back; if she didn't know better, she would suspect he was checking her out – she had that feeling she got whenever men actually did that to her. As they approached the kitchen, he leaned against a wall. "D'you know, I believe that's the first time you've ever spoken clearly to me. At least," he seemed to be talking to himself now, "That I recall."

Molly didn't know if it was the sleep after such a traumatic day, being in her own home that helped her be more assertice, or just a newfound bravado, but she laughed heartily, about to make breakfast but noticing he already had – and a nice one at that. She looked shyly at him and thanked him as he pulled out the chair for her, and sat down at the kitchen table. "You know, Sherlock, it's funny; I'm only where I am in the morgue because of my persistence, and how skilled and tenacious I am at what I do. It may surprise you, but I've never been anyone's pushover or questioned myself… but whenever you're around I just.. turn into a blathering idiot. You have that effect on people, you know."

He frowned as he placed a plate of eggs and toast and a cup of tea before her, slouching elegantly (and only he could pull that off) in the chair opposite. "To over intimidate and make someone feel inferior is not a gift, Molly, it's a curse. One I've lived with my whole life, and it is that particular detested trait in myself that I truly regret ever inflicting upon you."

She glanced up, her cinnamon doe eyes fixing intently on grey flames . What the hell, might as well let the lion out of the cage. She leaned forward, and- was it just her imagination, or did his eyes dart down to her cleavage? She could feel herself blushing again. "Sherlock, I'm not denying that you can be awful and say hurtful things about how unattractive and awkward I am, and everything. But… you don't make me _feel_ that way, honestly. It feels sort of, I don't know… releasing, I guess, in a twisted sort of way, to not always be 'little miss perfect' or the one with all the answers who is always in charge, or the one who's always on top." She felt her cheeks burn with the unintentional double implication of what she'd said, and to make matters worse, Sherlock was staring at her with a calculating expression on his face. She was pretty good at reading him on all matters related to pathology, crime, or even if he was feeling disgruntled or sad, but when it came to any romantic expressions, he was as stoic and unmoving as a gargoyle at the Notre Dame.

His fingers drummed rhythmically on the table for a minute while staring intently at her, as if he were practicing a violin concerto, then he jumped up and walked over to her laptop (perched on her small workstation against a wall), opening it. "I need to use your internet to set some affairs in order. Thanks to the help you've given me by injecting John with the hallucinogen when I dumped Moriarty's body in the street, and the disguise you'd created on him, I am safe here until I plan my next move." He looked at her in earnest. " I do hope you'll be good enough to put up with me."

"You know you're welcome to stay as long as you like," she said dismissively, taking a sip of her tea. "Just… don't wake me up with bells again." She smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Wall of Story-Abandonment Shame, I know. It's been pretty much a year now, and I realize I abandoned this fic. But with as long as the BBC is dragging it out too in finally filming season 3, I doubt it matters much at this point, so I've decided to come back and finish it. Thank you so much to all of you who commented and subscribed. I had a bout of a Sherlockian Phase this last week, and I'm determined to go back and finish this bad boy and call it done. **

**In so doing, I wasn't happy with the direction it was going, as my original direction had been pretty much cut and dry and I sort of wrote myself into a corner with the original chapter 3, so I'm changing this chapter pretty much entirely. Thanks once again for all of your kind comments. **

Sherlock and Molly fell into a routine of sorts over the next week; she was rotated as the head pathologist on the graves shift, so while she worked, he more or less slept and set his plans in motion (what plans those were he was keeping mum about), and she slept while he nearly unearthed her entire home during the day, reading all of her books, making use of every imaginable object, and growing increasingly agitated. With his name and face still fresh in the papers and enquiries being carried out, it _was still not safe for him to leave the flat._

She'd heard John mention Sherlock's banalities when he wasn't on a case before, but witnessing it firsthand was a different game entirely. He'd even resorted to demanding she perform the bells for him one evening before she set off to the morgue, which she did reluctantly, but after warming up to it, Molly even taught him to play a sketchy "Ode to Joy". She planned to somehow procure a violin (if not _his_ violin) in the next week so that he could vent his frustrations; she knew he was beginning to go stir crazy, so she hedged carefully around him, accepting his daily throw away insults, organizing a respectable head and shower usage, and doing her best to keep him fed and happy as he lay low.

One morning at Bart's, Molly was relieved by a fellow pathologist at the end of her shift after a particularly long and grueling night; Greg LeStrade had come in with a few colleagues over a murder case of a particularly brutal nature, and she had to endure his lascivious leering and obvious insinuations about how he and his wife had split up and he was currently _very_ single, whilst trying to maintain the integrity of the victim's privacy during the examination. With little so much as a verbal toss towards Sherlock ("It's really too bad about what happened, eh?") and a sympathetic frown, he'd immediately segued his way into charming her with his toothy grin while she worked. She knew LeStrade was harmless, but on top of the victim looking remarkably like herself and being brutally murdered and violated, then having to skirt around LeStrade's inappropriate come-ons, she was in an outwardly polite, inwardly really foul mood, _and_ her neck, shoulders and feet were beginning to hurt. There was no way she was going to be able to deal with any mood swings Sherlock might be having at the moment.

Molly hailed a taxi as she stepped out of the hospital, but was stopped by a familiar voice calling her name several feet away on the path. She turned, and there stood John Watson, salt-and-pepper hair a little tousled, his normally kind and cheerful face haunted and gaunt and street clothes a bit wrinkled and spotted with stains.

"John," she gasped.

"Hi, Molly," he smiled sadly, and gave her a hug. She heard the tell-tale crinkled of a brown paper bag in his hand, and upon seeing the thin cylindrical shape of a bottle within, she began to wonder if he'd actually gone home that night yet. And she thought _she'd _had a rough night.

"How-how are you?" she managed, waving the taxi off after his embrace.

John shrugged, pulling his coat tighter against the chill of the morning. "I'm… here. You know, I'm surviving." His eyes glazed over a bit, and he looked off to the side.

He smelled strongly of alcohol, and she felt a surge of emotion for him, knowing how much he missed Sherlock.

"Did you just get off for the night?" he asked.

Molly readjusted her purse on her shoulder. She always made it a point to wake herself up a bit before going home and refresh, so his being here could not be just coincidental. "I did. How did you know?"

John held up a familiar looking black mobile. "Sherlock always kept a link to your Bart's schedule in his phone, just in case we needed to come in for your help. I promise I'm not stalking you," he said congenially, and Molly smiled gently back at him, thinking _yeah, right_.

"I'm surprised it wasn't destroyed when he… you know."

John lifted a haggard eyebrow. He really did look years older, and it had only been weeks. "I was, as well. Apparently it was cushioned and miraculously survived. He'd be pleased. This thing was practically an extra limb."

Sherlock _would_ be pleased, she thought, especially since it went down with Moriarty's body.

John shifted his balance on his heels, looking earnestly at her. "I just wanted to check in and, you know, make sure you were doing okay. I think he'd want me to. I know you… cared for him," he said carefully. The dark circles beneath his eyes were pretty much the physical manifestation of how Molly was actually feeling at the moment.

She rubbed her forehead softly. Sherlock was probably on the sofa in her flat right now, probably drinking tea in his dressing gown, bored out of his mind waiting for her to come home and deduce everything about her night before he showered. "I'm just sort of taking it one day at a time," she murmured. John nodded empathetically.

"Yeah… yeah." He paused a moment, and handed her Sherlock's phone. "Here."

Molly's eyes widened in surprise. "Y-you're giving me his phone? Why?"

"I just… I've been holding onto it and I feel like it's time to let it go. Too many memories of too many cases. I know this is strange, but I thought you might want it."

She reluctantly took it from his hand, which was cold. "Erm, thanks. But we were never anything more than-"

John held up a hand. "I know, Molly. I know. But, well… I've never seen him apologize, sincerely apologize to someone the way he did to you, that night at the Christmas party."

Molly put the phone in her bag and let out a laugh, covering her eyes. "Oh God, please don't remind me about that horrible-"

John chuckled, pulling her hand down. "No, just hear me out. I think the reason why he reacted the way he did when you came in, was that he wanted it to be him you were dressed up for."

"Oh yeah," Molly laughed, looking around sarcastically. "Right. That's why he took off right afterwards."

"No, that had nothing to do with you," John put his hands in his pockets. "Look… Molly, it's cold and you're undoubtedly tired, so I won't keep you. But Sherlock… well, he was complicated."

Molly nodded. "That he was."

"Still… I do believe he had feelings for you. What those were I'll never know, but he did care, Molly. He mentioned you specifically before he jumped. You, me, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson. No matter how he acted or what he said when he was just being _Sherlock_, you have to believe that you did matter. You… _counted_ to him."

A memory stirred of a conversation she'd had with Sherlock, and she felt tears sting behind her eyes. She saw another taxi approaching in her peripheral vision, and leaned up on tiptoe to kiss John's cheek. With a whispered thanks and a promise that they would keep in touch, she got inside, muttering the address to her flat and watching John look tortured and tired as the taxi pulled into the street.

What a mess this whole thing was. She had faith that Sherlock would sort it all out as he always did, but to see his best friend suffering so greatly at the thought of his "death" was too much to bear.

Molly quietly unlocked her door, and slipped inside. She didn't see Sherlock right away, but he had tidied up a little to his credit. She set her briefcase and purse on the floor, hung up her coat, and put his phone on the coffee table. Taking her hair out of its ponytail, she carded her hands through it, massaging her sore scalp and upper neck. She toed off her shoes, and walked further into the flat. Sherlock was still deep asleep beneath the covers of her duvet in the bedroom. She paused at the doorjamb, watching him for a moment, then deciding she'd had enough, changed into a top-and bottom light blue pajama set in the bathroom and lay quietly down next to him. She was pretty much out the moment her head hit the pillow.

If she dreamt, she couldn't recall what it was about or how long it occurred, because the next thing she knew, she was looking at her digital alarm clock on the nightstand, which said 5:01. So she'd slept the whole day then. She rolled over on her back so she could stretch her hands over her head, and realized she was pretty much in Sherlock's embrace, and that he was wide awake, looking down at her and impossibly close, so much so that she could feel his body heat.

She gulped, blushing. "M-morning."

Sherlock smirked, touching her long hair that was spread, fan-like across the back of her pillow. "Molly," he muttered gutturally.

She felt his large hand on her hip. He seemed happier and livelier than he had in ages. "It's afternoon, incidentally."

"Oh. Right." Why couldn't she just sound like the smart, capable pathologist she was in his presence? Just for once?

His hand moved from her hip, and she realized he had been holding his mobile phone in it. Molly knew she should probably start moving at some point, but she was still pretty out for the count and just relaxed against her pillow. "I ran into John. He gave it to me," she said softly.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes scanning her f ace. "I surmised. This is a spectacular development, Molly. I'd hidden things on this, encrypted information that may very well help us."

She smiled. "Oh, Sherlock, that's good. That's brilliant!"

Sherlock let out a hearty laugh, and he actually looked happy, which was also slightly frightening. "Yes," he breathed. He laughed again, and kissed her quickly, lightly on the lips in his jubilance. "Yes!" Before she could register what had even happened, he rolled off the bed and grabbed her dressing gown, walking over to her side and holding it open for her. "A bath should make you feel better after your long day. I've drawn you one."

Molly sat up slowly, then stood as he helped her into the sleeves. "Thank you," she whispered, her lips still tingling from the brief kiss. His lips had been so warm and full, gentle but firm pressure on hers. "How did you kn-"

Sherlock stood before her and lifted her chin with his long fingers, his gray eyes glittering with amusement. "Molly, do you really need to ask?"

She laughed softly. "Oh. Of course not. Thank you for the bath." She could feel his energy in the air, like a certain kind of static or electrical current. This was the most energized she'd seen him since his "death", and it had to be a good sign.

Sherlock held the bathroom door open and smiled broadly, flirtatiously like he used to do when he was using her for access to bodies or the lab equipment at Bart's. She could feel herself blushing, and kept looking at him, his penetrating gaze fixed intently on her up until the last minute when she shut the door.

The bath proved to be heavenly. He'd poured some lavender oil in the water and lit a few candles, leaving some folded clothes for her on the closed toilet lid. After cleaning herself off, dressing and brushing her hair, she felt well rested and better than she had after her shift. She cleaned up, brushed her teeth, and realized she wasn't nervous for the first time ever with Sherlock. Quite the opposite, actually. When he'd kissed her lightly (was he saying thank you? Expressing his happiness at being reunited with his mobile), it had felt good, right, like a pair of comfortable old slippers with the excitement of a nice piece of lingerie all together.

Trying to decide how to handle this new development, Molly opened the door and strode into her bedroom, only to be grabbed around the waist and held close against Sherlock, her back to his chest. She let out a little squeak.

"I've decided," he muttered in her ear, his voice dropping a notch as he walked her toward the bed, "That enough is enough." Molly could do nothing but focus on her breathing as he pushed her down gently on the bed, crawling above her and dragging her head up to the pillows.

"W-what do you mean?" She asked, though she had a good idea what he meant. There had been far too much sexual tension between them the last several weeks, enough to ignite an inferno.

He settled her against the pillows, tracing the side of her face with a long, white finger. "I need you."

Molly furrowed her eyebrows. "But- I'm helping you. You're here, I'm doing what I can to help you. How can you need me anymore?"

Sherlock gave her a very pointed look, and Molly's eyebrows took off for her hairline. "B-but I thought you didn't… after Christmas, I thought you only-"

Sherlock lowered himself, now pressing intimately against her. Every hard and supple edge of him was letting her know just exactly how he needed her.

"-wanted… erm, that is, needed…"

He was tracing the side of her neck now, running the whisper of his fingertip against the line of her collarbone. "When did I ever say I didn't want you, Molly Hooper?"

A memory surfaced, and it was like cold water being thrown in her face. "At the lab, that day when I offered any help you might need. You said, wh-"

"'What could I possibly need from you', yes," he muttered. "Well, let's just say that after a very hard and very long fall, now I know."

She searched his eyes. She'd envisioned this scenario possibly hundreds of times over if she was being honest, but if this was going to happen, she wanted to be sure this was coming of his own accord, and not from some imaginary slight or owed payback for all the help she'd given him.

"A-and what made you realize this?" she asked carefully, her hand on his toned, broad chest as he kept tracing the contours of her collarbones. It was impossible to ignore the increasingly pleasant shivers coursing through her body.

"This," he said, holding up his mobile phone. He searched through a screen quickly, and pressed an illuminated PLAY button.

Sherlock's deep voice. _"Would you give me a moment, please? A moment of privacy?"_

The day of the Fall. Molly remembered this conversation. Her soft voice sounded a moment later.

"_You can do this, Sherlock. Just finish it, and the rest is taken care of. Everything is in place." _

They both listened to the shaky intake of breath Sherlock had taken that day on the edge of the building.

"_And anyway,"_ Molly's tinny voice continued from the phone that had actually gone into Sherlock's earpiece, _"The rotter deserves to die. Aside from being a murdering monster, he was the world's worst kisser. I swear he had the most manky halitosis in the world. We sat there watching 'Glee' on our last date, and when he started singing along with the show I about died with how bad his breath was. My God, Sherlock, do the world a favor."_

Sherlock began chuckling through the phone until it became a full on laugh, and she remembered watching him through her binoculars, happy to have given him that moment of reprieve before he jumped down and began circling Jim for the final time.

Sherlock switched off the mobile recording, and placed it on the nightstand, pressing into her once more. "It's there, Molly. Every snippet of the entire confession, everything Moriarty said. I can send this in, explain it all and clear my name. I thought it'd been destroyed in the fall, but it's _all _there."

"Sherlock!" Molly wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him down for a hug. "That is amazing!" She pushed him back a moment later. "But wait. John-"

"Obviously listened to everything, recognized your voice, and that's why he sought you out, because he obviously knows I'm alive," he ripped out enthusiastically, and he kissed her once more, this time slowly. She found she had a million questions bouncing around her head, but all she could do was kiss him back, moaning as his full, soft lips traveled to the side of her neck, below her ear.

"W-what did you mean - mm- when you said, 'now I know?'" Molly murmured.

Sherlock found her lips once more, his hands caressing her stomach, ever so lightly unbuttoning her blouse. "I could tell you," he said grouchily, kissing his way down her neck to her collarbone, continuing to unbutton her, "But I'd much rather show you."

Molly ran her hands down his back as he explored her. "I thought you were… that is, I thought you didn't-"

"Molly," he placated her, giving her a very Sherlockian look that made her break out into a genuine smile. "That's the problem, isn't it? Don't think. That's my department."

They looked at each other, and something passed between them in that moment that pretty much made her realize he'd cared for her all along. "That works for me," she smiled, drawing him down to her.

He proceeded to remove her clothing, item by item, and taste, touch, and explore every inch of her before properly claiming her body as his own. It had been nice with Callum… with Sherlock, it was fire and magic and science and Christmas all together. Sherlock took her to heights she knew she would never find with another living soul. Whatever he'd made people think or guess about him; his disregard for human interaction, his ignorance of people's feelings, was nothing compared to what he was actually capable of, how he could make her feel.

In the long hours that followed, Molly knew herself to be well and truly lost to Sherlock Holmes, and there was no going back. Perhaps that day when she'd said, "You can have me," part of her subconscious knew what it was doing, perhaps not. But one thing was certain, she was his, and always would be.

**THE END**


End file.
